Such Silence
by Autobot Chromia
Summary: McCoy was a teenager during the first outbreaks on Earth. Jim... Jim doesn't remember a time outside of blood, guts, and death. Zombie-Apocalypse AU. Slow build, Kirk-Spock, general angst and blood of a regular zombie infection. Rated T for swearing and violence.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Chapter Notes:

**Summary: McCoy was a teenager when the first outbreak started on Earth. Jim... Jim doesn't remember a time outside of blood, guts, and death.**

**Because Star Trek doesn't have enough zombie fics and I can't seem to get my muse to work with me on "It's Over." Over is going on hiatus for the moment (isn't that the redshirt word of all stories?) and I shall honestly try to return to it. I haven't had a story work with me in a while, and this just seems to be doing it.**

**Please enjoy, or, you know, don't.**

**A rather dark fic in the area of disease, death, blood, guts, gore, and zombie-ism. I'm trying to do my own thing here, but might have cheap shots taken from Zombieland (which I've seen all but the first 30 min-1 hour of...) Shaun of the Dead (a hysterical movie even if they spelled 'Sean' wrong... Bonus points:Scotty!), I am Legend, and brief 'videoclips' I have seen off of Youtube from 'The Last of Us' and 'The Last of Us: Left Behind'. I don't play video-games, so... youtube. I don't own any of the before mentioned genres, nor Star Trek... but if somebody would give my Zachary Quinto I would be very much obliged.**

**(Him, or Benadryl Cucumberhatch... funny how you still know who I'm talking about.)**

**Title taken from the song 'Zombie' by the Cranberries, both a song and band my mother likes... I had to look up the lyrics, so don't expect any more song-related titles.  
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Chapter 1

"Jim"

The name was hissed in the dark, a hand thumping against a warm body. A few more thumps struck against the thick clothes before the sound of flesh hitting flesh rang out.

"Wake up, Jim."

The name bearer, currently laying prostrate on the gritty floor of an abandoned apartment complex, muttered. Blonde hair slid deeper into the depths of his sleeping bag, material rustling the only sound in the late twilight.

The caller, his clothes just as thick and bulky, bent over the prostrate man. He pulled down the lip of the sleeping bag, holding back a chuckle as the blonde rolled his face into the floorboard, grit and plaster leaving their imprints on his cheek. Slowly, he positioned himself over the slumbering man, bending closer and closer until his breath moved stray strands of wispy hair and he could smell the days old sweat on the blonde's neck.

Crouching just a little closer, he lay a hand on the loose shoulder for support, buried his nose into the greasy neck, and hissed.

That got him. The blonde leapt from his unzipped bag, eyes not even fully awake before he had the antagonist flat on his back, his arm strangling his throat and his other hand pressing a blade to the exposed jugular. Blue eyes blinked when there was no retaliation, other than some wary snickering.

Jim fall back onto his rear, blade still poised. "Holy shit." he cursed, rubbing his hand against his neck and glaring fit to melt plutonium. "Shit, Bones, I thought I was bitten."

"Ya should have seen the look on your face, Jimbo." McCoy smirked, propping himself up on his elbows. He rubbed at his own throat, the imprint of the blade slowly fading away. "Well, at least your reflexes check out."

"Reflex-" Jim shook his head, running a hand through his hair standing every which way like a bristling dog. "What the hell were you trying to do, get yourself killed?"

"Hardly." McCoy scoffed, now seated Indian style. "Ya sleep like the dead, Jim. I'd say-"

"Don't."

"-the walking dead, but they don't seem to ever sleep." McCoy finished. He looked towards Jim, scowling like a five year old woken up too early from his nap. "C'mon, Jim, we should get movin'. Daylight waits for no man."

Jim groaned heavily, letting his body fall back against the loose floorboards rotted away by years of disuse and termite infestations. He had missed his sleeping bag by a few feet, but that was okay. He didn't need the blanket to sleep. "Can't it wait another hour?"

He grunted as a steel-toed boot collided with his ribcage. Lazily lolling his head, he looked around the darkened room illuminated by a couple of glowsticks and his own eyes adaption to the night and the half moon. McCoy had already packed up his stuff and was busy dumping the contents of a bag into two cups that desperately needing washing. But, what was cleanliness anymore? The cups had been found in somebody's kitchen cupboard during one of their raids, had been boiled in some pond water inside a rusty, metal soup can found at the old recycling centre, and they hadn't been cleaned since. The only difference between the two plastic mugs was the fact McCoy's had a chip off the top of his, a nasty fall onto his pack breaking some of his equipment and his only mug.

"Is that coffee?" he asked sleepily, trying to smell the liquid. He breathed in deep the scent of the black mold on the walls and the overall mustiness of the air itself.

McCoy snorted. "I wish. Frankly, I don't have a clue what the hell it is. Could be coffee, could be tea, could be dehydrated Andorian piss. All I know is that it's brown like coffee, thick like coffee isn't, and sure as hell doesn't taste like coffee."

Not bothering to rise, Jim merely propped himself on one elbow to reach up for his mug and sip at the cold drink. Hot water was severely lacking these days, fire having to act as propane and replicators had back in the day. Fire was easy to make when it was dry enough, but the apartment building they had broken into last night was a little too dry to safely start one. So, for now, the two men had to be satisfied with cold tea-coffee-pee-water.

Taking a hesitant sip of his cup, Jim choked. "Tastes like shit." he coughed.

"I wouldn't be surprised." McCoy snarled into his drink, tasting it with a grimace before dumping it onto the floor. He tugged a large backpack towards himself, all within arms reach, and fished around inside.

Jim glanced up at the sound of glass tinkling against plastic and a quick gurgling sound. "Aw, Bones," he groaned pathetically, "you've been holding out on me."

The brown-haired, grizzled man scowled darkly before motioning Jim towards him. The young blonde was quick to toss away the content of his cup and quickly hold it out. Amber liquid poured from a small glass bottle, pooling in the bottom of his cup and mixing with the lingering sludge of the not-coffee. Almost as soon as the liquid had started to flow, it stopped.

"Hey, c'mon, you got me more than me." Jim complained as the bottle was corked and tucked away. "No fair!"

"It's my bottle." McCoy groused, taking a slow sip of his cup. His eyes closed, swallowing against the slow, warming burn of bourbon. "'Sides, I'm savin' it."

Jim tipped the last sip from his cup, swiping away the drops from the corner of his mouth and licking them from his hand. "What for? The longer you keep it the more likely it is to get broken."

"Don't talk like that." McCoy snorted. He double-checked his pack, just to make sure his extra socks and underwear were doing their duty as bourbon pillows. "I'm keeping it for something special."

Slowly rolling up his sleeping bag and connecting it to the bottom half of his pack, Jim checked around for any weapons he might have taken out. His handgun was shoved in his back pocket and his knife was in his front. Nope, all good. What was empty, however, was his grumbling stomach. "Hey, Bones." he started, scanning their surroundings. It was dark, the sun just barely peeping out over the empty city. "Do we got anything to eat? I'm starving."

"Just a pack of nibs." the older man stated, shaking the pack of dry, flavorless protein nibs that shared a remarkable amount of ingredients with dog kibble. "Don't worry, we got contact with Scott by the harbor. Scotty's always got food."

"If you can pay enough." Jim scoffed, slinging on his pack as McCoy donned his. "We got what he wants?"

"Three ration cards, those tools we salvaged, a new switchblade, and a dirty magazine." McCoy assured the younger man.

Jim blinked as McCoy shifted about his heavy bag some. "What's Scotty want with an old magazine? He doesn't carry weapons, his guards do... Like a paper magazine?"

"When I said dirty, I wasn't talkin' about physical dirt." the older man grinned.

It took a few seconds, and then it clicked. "You've been holding out on me, again." Jim scolded. "Where the hell did you get your hands on one of those without me knowing?"

McCoy huffed proudly. "Found a whole stack of 'em the same place we got those tools. I only had room for a few of 'em, and when my pack fell in that damned crick I lost all but one."

Jim sighed, grabbing his pistol from the back of his pants pocket, checking the magazine case and blowing out the dust that had gathered in the night. "Hey," he called as McCoy reached for the door, "check your weapons."

"I did that already, kid." McCoy rolled his eyes, continuing to reach for the doorknob. A strong, calloused hand grabbed him sharply, twisting his arm. He sighed, meeting the blue eyes boring into his own of green. "Fine, I'll check 'em again."

He reached into his own back pocket, withdrawing the black weapon and clicking out the mag case. Full of rounds and free of dirt and water. He clicked the case back in, sliding the weapon back. Jim seemed satisfied, remaining quiet as the older man reached for the door, pulled back the lock chain, and threw open the door. He went out first, noticing how the sun higher now, reaching into the hallway overgrown with creeping vines that had snuck in through a broken window. Jim followed behind, careful of squeaky steps and creaking floorboards. The kid was on edge. He always was. Everybody was always on edge. That was just how things were now.

Things hadn't always been so. There were times when weapons were only a military thing or used in leisure during hunting season. Now, there was hardly a living soul that didn't have some kind of gun or knife on them. McCoy had even seen, and used himself, bricks and pipes and glass bottles and his bare hands as ammo when his gun ran out or he hadn't time to draw a blade. If you didn't, you weren't dead. You were worse than dead. You became one of them.

Some called them the walking dead, others the more cliche term of zombie or the undead or maneaters. The truth was that they really weren't dead; they were just as alive as McCoy and Jim were. They were just sick, a mutant virus tearing through their bodies and feasting on the infecteds' minds. It was a madness disease, unlike anything anyone in the known galaxy had ever seen before. It was strong, stronger than the average human germ, and much stronger than the average human immune system.

The Virus, better left unnamed by something scientific and unpronounceable, was not a human germ at all. It was a mutant Vulcan one, originating from the planet Vulcan itself so far away and dead. Vulcans were moralistic, Vulcans were ethical, Vulcans were secretive, and Vulcans were full of shit. One of those genius-minded, pointy-eared scientist had had the grand notion of mucking about with different strains of crap better left untouched, mixing them together like a bio-geneticist. Obviously, he was the first to become ill with his own creation. But, as Doctor Something-or-another had kept his research so secretive, not a single Vulcan knew how to combat it. They hadn't even known what he was doing until it was too late, and the first bite had been taken.

It started on Vulcan, and worked its way across the planet. But, even with as quiet as they were, above everything else, Vulcans were highly logical. They had ways to quarantine the few who had became ill, testing on them like lab rats, but they were able to contain the Virus. It were humans that had spread the disease like mice did the fleas that carried the black plague. A human doctor studying the infected Vulcans had gotten just a tad too cocky and close for his own good and had become infected, hidden the bite, and tried to return home. It started with a fever and disorientation, then it all spiraled downhill from there. They would begin to foam at the mouth like rabies victims, and become delusional as the fever grew. When it hit over one-hundred and six, a temperature usually progressing over a three-day period, it was too late and the infected began looking for its next victim.

By the time the human doctor's shuttlecraft had reached Earth, there wasn't a real soul left onboard.

Nobody really knew why the Infected wanted to bite others, tearing their captured, sentient prey to pieces with their mouths and hands. They didn't devour much of the flesh, merely brutally tore apart the captured victim and staggered away. Most didn't survive 'zombie' attacks, but if they did, and they were bitten, they were usually killed by comrades or left to Turn, to become one of the Infected.

Instinctively his hand flew to his back pocket as rocks slid behind him, whirling around in time to see Jim trying to steady himself on a broken piece of road that had cracked and lifted out of its proper place in the ground. McCoy breathed a huff of relief, knowing his heart wasn't going to still to a more natural rhythm until the day it gave out, and shoved the gun back down pants.

"You okay?" he asked as Jim caught up.

"Just slipped." Jim returned.

The city of San Francisco, once the melting pot of the galaxy, seemed dead and lifeless. People dressed as ratty as he and Bones congregated in groups of two and four, talking in hushed voices about this and that. The Apocalypse of the Modern World seemed to have killed off everybody but cartels and gangs and mafia. Or, more likely, the moralistic had given up as everything was going to Hell anyways. It wasn't uncommon to see groups of two to four go through their 'covert' handoffs, knives glinting behind their hands and baggies crinkling in their pockets.

But, no matter what, it was always in groups of two, three, or four. There simply weren't enough people left for larger groups of friends, or even enemies, to lump together. Jim had had lots of friends back at the Academy, the best place to learn survival tactics and zombie-killing. He had met McCoy there, acting as some kind of overskilled school nurse. Doctor McCoy had been his best friend, and now Doctor McCoy was his only friend.

Jim swallowed, pushing away those thoughts. They only made him nauseous, wondering how many of those people were now the mindless Infected that tore people apart, or how many of those people died at the hands of those monsters. He couldn't remember a time outside of undead, but McCoy could. McCoy had been a teenager during the first outbreaks. Jim... Jim couldn't remember a time outside of blood, guts, and death.

He was doing it again, stop thinking about it. He paused, watching Bones pick his way over the broken ground and fallen things blocking the road and the weeds taller than both men combined sprouting from the open ground. It didn't look like a city any longer, it looked like a montropolis that had been abandoned like an ancient ghost town during the days of gold mining and prospecting. But, those days were better than the centuries ahead. There wasn't even running water anymore, like there had been then.

"Jim!" the voice caught the blonde's attention. "Hurry up, kid!"

"Comin'." Jim called ahead, trotting up. He didn't run, you never ran unless you had to. You saved your energy and conserved your strength, because you were going to need it. You never allowed yourself to make any noise, not even your feet while walking. You had to be quiet, you had to listen at all times.

He stopped, not even slightly out of breath, when he had caught up to McCoy in front of what looked like an old electronics store. Every piece inside was fried, they didn't even have to check. But, it was going to be dark. Jim hated the dark.

"Can't we go around?" he asked, even as McCoy climbed through the broken window and dropped over the display. "There's other ways to the harbor."

"You know this way's fastest." McCoy argued, watching Jim clamber in and drop. Their shoes crunched on old, broken glass and devices that had been dropped during the lootings. That was years, decades ago, but little had been disturbed, even the dust comfortable in their crevices. "Besides, the sooner we get to Scott's the sooner we can eat. Weren't ya just bellyachin' that you were hungry?"

Jim dropped his head, only a second to make a point. He fingered the sharp blade in his pocket, eyeing the advanced technology that couldn't even blink their lights any longer. "Yeah, but I'd rather be alive and hungry than dead and... uh..."

"Hungry?" McCoy snorted, his own hand close to his pockets. "Com'on, it ain't even a big building."

Jim hummed uninterestingly, pausing before a display of old communicators. The latest model, according to the sign dated back stardates ago. Cobwebs had been spun between the devices and dust liberally coated them like a thick layer of frosting. He reached out, picking up one of the obsolete tools, and thumbed away the half-inch of dirt and grime. The white-ish grey com. unit was blue, a dark navy blue with all the gadgets. He flipped it open, half-hoping the screen would at least be frozen on a default mode. It wasn't, it was black. Just like the army green one next to it and the hot pink after that. All black, all dead.

"Jim?"

Jim dropped the com. unit like a naughty child being caught with his finger on the replicator, ordering up cookies. He breathed in to call back, and his breath caught. McCoy was right behind him, holding a finger to his lips. There was shuffling, not from either one of the frozen men and not the typical scuttling of your everyday mouse. It was a stiff, dragging shuffling, like forced movement even after the limbs had been touched by rigor mortis. A rattling, the clumsiness of tripping over something yet retaining its balance because it never had any to begin with. A moan, a throaty gurgle of spit and mucus and blood all blending together in the vocal cords.

He could see her, or what had once been a human female, her hair white and only a few greasy strands held together with the blood of her victims and mud. Her clothes were in tatters, probably torn apart by the beast that had gotten her. Jim could see the green, gangrenous rot of her flesh at is sloughed from her body, exposing darkening, festering meat and bone beneath. He tried not to look at her face, but he couldn't control himself. The faces were always the worst, the skin mottled green and yellow and black and brown like infected bruises, peeling away like an overripe banana. The nose... what nose? It was a dark yellow-brown mass of cartilage with large nostrils like a skull's holes with just a little bit of red, rotten, bloodied skin. She was missing an ear, and her eyes looked about ready to roll from their sockets and dangle. Or fall out, depending on if her optic nerve was still in place or not.A click as his pistol's safety was clicked off, and he took careful aim. He could do this in one shot, maybe two. Jim pulled the trigger, the backlash throwing his arms up and back.

_Bang!_

The thing screamed, wagging her head, throwing soupy grey matter and blood and foamy spit across the room. Jim shot again, another animal scream rang as she fell to the floor, squirming about like a worm in water, and forced her own brains out of her head all the faster. She was still. She was silent. She was dead.

McCoy cleared his throat, his own gun in his hands. "There-" he coughed again, the stench of rotten carcass spreading already, "there might be another." Jim didn't answer. "We should move."

Bones started walking, checking over his shoulder to make sure Jim was following. He was, face blank and knuckles white around his gun. No matter how many you killed, how many attacked you, or how long you lived, it never got any easier. Knowing that, someday, that lowly, snarling, deranged monster might one day be you gave your hand the strength to pull the trigger, but it never got any less sickening.

"Com'on," McCoy said, throwing his weight against the stuck door, opening up into a bright backway. He could hear the waves on the harbor nearby. "Stick close."

Jim only nodded, pulling back the bolt of his gun and sliding up the next bullet. The safety was still off of his gun, and McCoy slid his off as well.

* * *

><p>Montgomery Scott, ex-mechanical, transwarp theory genius, and all-around maniac. He was one of the quietest souls you could ever discover, always inside his own mind and thinking and plotting in his head. He almost never had a weapon on him, unless it was during a trade. He was one of the worst shots Jim had ever seen, but yet seemed to be the sneakiest sonofabitch still alive. The only way to find him was one of the easiest, you only had to follow the scent of whatever he was cooking. Today, Scotty's hideout was an abandoned storage house by the docks. The scent that was driving them onward was the real clue, though.<p>

Today's menu: eggs and bacon.

"Holy crap." Jim let his backpack slide from his shoulders and fall to the floor with a heavy thud, startling the shorter man seated over a crumby fire outfitted with a tiny tripod and skillet. "That smells good."

McCoy let his own pack fall, eyeing the strips of meat hanging over the tripod's spit and the eggs snapping in the pan. "Those have got to be expired."

"They bloody well do not." Scotty huffed indignantly, his thick Scottish accent setting off the funny Scottish golfing cap he always insisted on wearing. "I damned well slaughtered the pig meself an' found the eggs fresh from the hen." He sniffed lightly as McCoy and Jim quickly sat, both looking like a whole pack of hungry wolves each. "There's a farm not too far up the road a-ways. The animals 'ad all broken out an' had free run o' the place. It wasn' too hard ta catch a few o' 'em for a proper meal."

Metal plates had materialized from somewhere behind the Scotsman, rusty in some corners yet whole and surprisingly clean aside from some grease. Scotty picked up the first plate, dropping two thick pieces of bacon into the corner of it and a generous helping of eggs onto the other side with his fingers, no kind of utensil other than a broken pencil to scramble the yolks and whites apart during cooking. The first plate was handed to Jim, the second to McCoy, and the third for himself. Not a crumb remained in either handle-less frying pan nor tripod spit.

Biting into the first piece of bacon, not waiting for the others to finish serving themselves, Jim closed his eyes at the delicate, crisp crunch that sounded between his teeth. "How the heck were those animals still alive? I mean, I can see the chickens, but the pig? Don't those need to be fed scraps or something?"

"The less ya know, lad," Scotty picked up a piece of egg with his fingers and popped it into his mouth, "the better."

Jim should have been wary as he finished the first piece of bacon and started on the second, but he didn't even want to try. For all he knew, maybe the pig had eaten pears from a nearby orchard and not the rotting flesh of dead things. This was a grass-fed pig, free-ranged and GMO free, in his mind.

He was halfway through the eggs, taking his time now as his hunger had subsided, when McCoy started talking. "Scott, we need supplies."

The Scottish man hummed, licking his fingers clean. "What kinda supplies are we talkin' here?"

"Foodgoods." McCoy specified. "Jim'n I are down to our last pack of nibs, and this here's the first actual meal we've eaten in the last month."

Scotty sighed. "I don't have a lot o' nonperishables, they're almost completely depleted. The two o' you might be my friends, but yer far from my only customers. Galia, Keenser, and I have been goin' off o' whatever we find that'd start to spoil soon, like fresh fruits and the eggs."

"I'm not asking for eggs." McCoy rose slightly, lifting the pack he had been sitting on up and seated himself on the cold ground. "We've got some stuff you might be interested in."

The three ration cards were spread out across the cement floor, paper thin and green. An assortment of tools clattered out, from a handful of nuts and bolts to a hammer and monkey wrench. The switchblade, almost rusted shut but still operational, was dropped out on top of a wrinkled paper magazine, water stained and yellowing, but still revealing a woman in a rather provocative pose in a rather skimpy outfit.

Scotty chuckled as he lifted the magazine, flipping through the first few pages. He set it aside, slowly inspecting his way through each nut and bolt, eyeing each one like a jeweler or a snobbish packrat. Two ration cards were looked over, and the switchblade quickly inspected.

"Well, I'm not needin' any more weapons." he stated, tossing the rusty knife back to McCoy, who packed it away. "I could use the bolts, though, and the cards."

"So we can keep the magazine?" Jim's face lit up, reaching for what he hoped was a pot of real coffee but instead just cold water. It was clean water, though, so just as good.

"Hell, no." Scotty snickered. "I mean on top o' the magazine. In return, I got a few cans left of that fruit cocktail stuff, six ounces each." He held up his hand to show the size. "A few soup, beans, and one can of bread."

McCoy, finishing his own fried meat stick, paused. "Canned bread?"

"Aye, but that alone'll cost ya all the ration cards." Scotty states.

Jim's eyes were boring into his, wide like a pleading puppy dog's. A hungry, starving puppy dog that just found out that the last bone in the whole world was just a few feet away. McCoy shook his head. "We're not taking the bread."

"But, Bones-"

"Not at this crooks prices." McCoy half-joked half-meant. "What about five cans of the fruit mix for the nuts, bolts, and the hammer, and six cans of beans for the magazine and one ration card."

"Two cards." Scotty countered. "Ah've got three people here, you've just two."

"Yeah." McCoy nodded. "One card for you, one card for me, and one card for Jim. You and your minions scavenge everything like a pack of wolves anyways, what do you need ration cards for?"

Scotty's normally cheerful eyes, especially when bartering, dimmed. "The ARMY gets mighty suspicious when you just stop comin' 'round with yer cards but they see ya walkin' around everyday. Two cards and..." he looked towards Jim, still watching like an eager twelve year old instead of the early twenty-year old he was, "an' I'll... I'll throw in the bread."

"Deal." McCoy said quickly, sliding over his goods. Scotty went to scoop them up, only to get his hands swatted away. "I want to see what we're gettin' first."

Scotty rose, grumbling but feigning hurt feelings. "Have I ever cheated ya before, Doctor?"

"Yes." McCoy returned sharply. "Now, bring us our stuff and you can get your..." he motioned towards the odds and ends on the floor. "Your crap."

The short, Scottish-capped man hummed fondly. "One man's crap is another man's treasure."

"You can keep the treasure and the crap." Jim piped up. "We just want the food."

McCoy snorted a laugh as Scotty sighed and shook his head, disappearing and returning a moment later with a sack bulky and clinking with the unopened cans. He handed them over to McCoy, who took it and began to lift out each can, checking them for holes, dents that could have unsealed the lid, or anything off about them.

"Scott," McCoy lifted a can, "all of these are two months expired."

Scotty smiled. "The best o' my stock for the best o' my friends. You dinna want ta be seeing what I've been givin' my least favorite customers."

The ex-doctor huffed, motioning for Jim's bag. "You can carry the fruit and your bread. I'll take the beans."

The young blonde slid it over, watching contentedly as McCoy began to slide the silver cans in. He rubbed his hands together lazily as he glanced around, looking up in the rafters and the shadows of the room. "So..." he drawled out his vowel, "is Galia around?"

"You'd do well not to mess aroun' with my Orion, mister." Scotty's eyes sparkled. "She's my bodyguard, an' my girlfriend." Scotty sighed heavily. "Who knew it'd take a zombie apocalypse ta make an Orion monogonous."

"Almost monogonous." Jim reminded him with a wide grin. Hadn't that been a night, until they had been caught. Jim had claimed pheromones, and Galia the same. It really shouldn't have been her excuse seeing as she was the one giving them off. Scotty had been ticked, but not too ticked. It was the post-after the world as we know it, after all.

Scotty sent him a warning glare, mostly playful but not entirely. The Scotsman watched curiously as the ex-doctor rose, sliding his heavier pack onto his back. "Must ya be goin' so soon? Ya only just got 'ere."

"It's better to keep moving." McCoy stated. He motioned for Jim to rise, sighing in frustration as the kid tried to sling the heavy pack, probably weighing somewhere between twenty or twenty-five pounds, over one should. "Put it on right, Jim. I'm not going to have you screw up your neck and back before you're thirty."

"Heh." Jim snickered, using his other arm anyways. "That's assuming I live 'til I'm thirty."

He stopped laughing at the more defined scowl on McCoy's face. "Don't even joke about that."

Scotty had risen, reaching out a hand to the doctor. "I'll be seeing you around?"

"Maybe." McCoy agreed. "Stay safe, Scott."

"You too." the trader returned, clasping hands a moment. He watched them turn to leave, waiting a second before sighing heavily, like a man beaten by a woman and slowly learning which battles were best avoided. "Jim," he called, a blonde head turning sharply, "Gal says hi. She's been wavin' at ya the whole time... amongst other things."

Jim waved back, not entirely sure where the Orion bodyguard was staking out, but knowing that he was well in her line of vision. He turned on his heels, quickly sprinting back to McCoy, waiting for him at the front of the warehouse. He touched his back pocket for his weapon, run his calloused fingers over the blade of his knife in his front, and followed McCoy back outside into the silent San Franciscan post-apocalypse.

* * *

><p><p>

Chapter End Notes:

Author's Notes - Please forgive the terrible formatting and paragraph spacing. I don't have a spell check anymore, so I had to do this via Google Drive, which doesn't seem to understand that paragraphs needs spacing just as much as lines do.

Also, before anyone points out, I know that pigs aren't grass-fed. They're omnivorous, like chickens.

Thank you.

**I have no idea why there was a triple-post in one chapter, but all fixed now. **


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

"Don't you even think about it."

Plunk!

"Think about what?"

McCoy scowled as he toed a glowing coal back into the fire pit, basically nothing more than a little pile of rocks on swept-away ground in the middle of a quiet forest just off of the old Highway. "I saw that. You were about to throw that away. You'd eat it, if you knew what was good for ya."

Jim groaned, eyeing the offending halved cherry floating in the bottom of his cup. He'd eaten out all the squishy pears, the peach chunks, and the pineapple. "I hate cherries."

"Ever have a real, fresh-picked cherry? Stem in place and stone in the middle?" McCoy asked, knowing the answer before Jim could even shake his head. "No? Too bad. Now shut up and finish your food."

It hadn't been much of a supper, no meals were really as substantial and nutritious as they should have been. They had cracked open the first of Scotty's cans, adding that to the meat they had captured that day. McCoy had shot down a squirrel and Jim a rabbit as they had foraged through the bushed. Both were small, the squirrel almost as big as the rabbit. They would have had more meat if McCoy would just allow Jim to capture a few mice. Jim could never understand what McCoy held against mice. The rodents, while pesky and a little dirty, couldn't be any worse than the squirrel meat. Mice could eat more than squirrels, foraged just the same, but McCoy could never bring himself to shoot one for a meal. He wouldn't allow Jim to, either.

"Do I have to?" Jim whined unashamed, making a face at the bobbing candied fruit. "I'm full."

"Bullshit." McCoy snorted.

"I..." Jim hummed, mind churning for some new excuse. "I think I'm developing an allergy to cherries."

The ex-doctor tossed a couple of dry branches on the crackling fire, a few leaves snapping under the steady lick of flames. He tossed on another with a force reflecting his growing annoyance. "If you had an allergy to the cherries, you wouldn't have been able to eat anything else out of the can. Now, shaddup and eat it!"

Jim grimaced as he lifted his cup, taking infantile sips of the juice the fruit had been canned in until he felt the cherry go down with it. He could have argued longer, made more excuses than the politicians of olden days had, but nothing was more frightening than Bones' wrath. Even a cluster of Infected were nothing compared to a brooding, cranky, glowering doctor. The last argument Jim had egged the older man into, McCoy had given Jim the silent treatment for three days. Three whole days, days with nothing but quiet, ignorance, and the occasional disinterested grunt at whatever the younger man had to say.

The plastic cup clattered as it was dropped into Jim's travel-pack. The sleepings bags had been spread out across the leaf-coated ground. The trees were bearing of their leaves in the season of Autumn. Fall was Jim's favorite season. Sure, the nights did get colder and the days crisper, but curling up next to the fire took care of any cold. The drying leaves on the ground created an insulating bed between the cold dirt and his back, forming a both warmer and softer mattress. But, best of all, when the trees began to strip themselves naked in the preparation of winter ( the worst season of all, ever), their bearing branches created twiggy frames to the heavens. It was almost impossible to get a good view of the stars when the trees were fully clothed, but in the fall, the entire night sky twinkled and shone with all their length.

Jim stretched himself over the top of his sleeping bag, arms tucked behind his head and the fire casting flickering shadows of grey and orange over his face, his blonde hair taking on a volcanic appearance.

"Hey." McCoy barked, his normal speaking tone no matter how gentle or rough he meant to speak. "You gonna read tonight?"

"Nah." Jim shook his head absently, eyes glued to the gibbous moon and all her companions above. "Not tonight."

Bones nodded slowly, his own eyes being pulled upwards. He had never seen such a sky when he was younger, the lights from the house and the distant city dimming the natural lights from above. Often he had wished that, for just one night, everything would go dark just to see how magnificent the sky would appear without all of the artificial illumination. Now, he wished that, for just one day, everything could go back to normal.

"Fine." McCoy returned, reaching into his own pack from his seat of an overturned log. He withdrew his glass bottle, three-fourths full of amber liquid, and poured barely a sip into his cup. As he lifted it to his lips, he paused, sighing. "No."

"But, Bones-"

"Nuh-uh." The bottle was slid back into its proper slot. "I told ya, I'm savin' it. And, technically, you ain't even legal yet."

Jim chuckled. "There's no law anymore, Bones. 'Sides, I'm almost twenty-one. It'll keep me warm." He bat his baby blues, appearing more golden in fire's light.

"If your cold, cover up and scootch closer to the fire. This here's my bourbon." McCoy stated firmly, tipping back the small sip. He didn't know why he drank it still, half the time. He couldn't drink enough to get drunk without risk of getting caught off guard, and he barely sipped enough to burn his throat or warm his toes. It was more for the flavor, the sharp bite reminding him that he was still here, still alive. He remembered his Daddy drinking the browned liquid when something had gone wrong, and how much he had drunk the night before he taught McCoy how to shoot to kill.

The ex-doctor cleared his throat against the light tingling. "Well, if you're not readin', ya might as well get some sleep. I'll keep first watch."

The young blonde didn't reply, quickly setting about unzipping his sleeping bag and sliding in, leaving the zipper undone. In some ways, Jim was just a kid. He was quick to obey and follow instructions, except the times when he didn't. He would goof off and fool around when he could, but most of the times he couldn't. Given a real chance, he would have been capable of great things. Instead, he was forced to kill zombies from the day he was born until the day he was either killed or his body gave out from sheer exhaustion.

Jim was a five year old in the body of an overgrown teenager with the brain of Einstein and the lifestyle of a horror movie.

"Hmm?" McCoy hummed as he realized Jim had spoken.

"I said," Jim shuffled deeper into his bag, "G'night, Bones."

"'Night, kid."

He listened as Jim gave a quiet breath, slowly drifting into sleep. The night was quiet, even the crickets refusing to chirp. It was too cold for fireflies, but that also meant it was too cold for more annoying insects, mosquitos and gnats disappearing with the warm, summer breeze.

Reaching into his back pocket, McCoy cocked his pistol and slid the safety off his weapon before sliding the gun back down his back pocket. He slid to the ground, closer the fire, and leaned his head back against the top of his log, watching the stars slide by.

* * *

><p>He was being shaken, sharply, with rough, cold hands. Jim hummed, whining piteously. "I jus' fel' 'sleep..."<p>

"I know, but I heard somethin'." McCoy replied, voice lowered and hissed in the night.

Jim snorted, feeling his breath wetten the inside of his sleeping bag. He rolled onto his side, pinching his eyes shut rebelliously. "I'm not falling for this again. You got me..." a yawn threatened to split his mouth apart and pop out his jaw, "got me yesterday."

"Damnit, Jim, I'm not joking." a sense of urgency had leaked into McCoy's harsh whispers. "I fucking heard something."

"Infected?" Jim asked, a finger stroking his ever-present knife as he cracked his eyes open. It was still dark, possibly darker than before, and the moon had barely shifted its position in the night sky.

Bones shrugged. "Dunno. Could just be an animal, but I want you awake in case it isn't."

Jim sighed, his breath forming a whitish grey cloud, as he sat up. "Fine, but, I swear to god, if nothing shows up in the next ten minutes, I'm sleeping in."

The doctor didn't answer, falling quiet and straining his ears for some kind of noise. Jim quietly slid the safety from his gun, setting it in his covered lap. He picked at some drying grass, watching the soft wind lift them from his fingertips and drop the shards a few inches away. The fire had gotten low, but so had their woodpile. McCoy was trying to save what kindling they had to last the whole night through.

Slowly, a rough estimate of ten minutes came and went. Without watches or clocks, exact time was anybody's guess. Jim yawned exaggeratedly as he lifted his gun to slide it back under his blankets. "Well, that's it, then. It was probably just a-"

"Shh."

Snap!

A twig broke somewhere in the surrounding forest, and stopped. It had been a loud snap, much too loud for a little animal to have caused. Deer were nearly extinct, over-hunting killing out the quadrupeds a few years into the first cases of Infected. It couldn't have been a deer. The branch had sounded thick, too thick for a squirrel or raccoon to break while skittering across the woodland floor.

Thump!

Something fell amongst distant bushes, rattling the dry branches and shaking leaves free. Jim was on his feet in an instant, his gun in hand and steadied.

"Want me to come-"

"No." Jim shook his head, whispering. "I got this. Probably just an animal."

"Yeah." McCoy returned, unconvinced.

His feet crunched against the fallen brown leaves as he crept away from the campsite. There wasn't any heavy shuffling or moaning, always a good sign when dealing with a potential zombie situation. The air smelled clean, lacking the Infected essence of death and decay. There wasn't even a single fly to signal the oncoming of a zomb.

Jim hummed quietly to himself as he picked up a freshly broken branch from the bush he had tracked down. Something had knocked it free like a rock... or small piece of brick. He picked up the dark red piece, rubbing off the fresh mud that it had fallen in. Idly, Jim shoved his handgun back into his rear pocket and began to head back to camp.

"Hey, Bones," he called ahead just as the soft flicker of firelight began to light his way through the brush, "I think I found what made that noise. I have no idea-"

"Jim!"

A gun cocked, at it wasn't Jim's.

* * *

><p>Jim had been gone five minutes now, the crunch-crunch of his shoes disappearing the farther he went. The quiet was haunting, sending a cold shiver up McCoy's spine as he grabbed his weapon, just in case.<p>

He had barely re-clicked his magazine case when he felt it, short and cold and rounded and pressed firmly on the back of his neck. The business end of a handgun had appeared from nowhere, cocking into place. A warm body pressed close to his, a voice hissed into his ear.

"Put down your weapon."

Well, since he asked so nicely. Slowly, Bones lowered his weapon to the ground, kneeling in the crunchy leaves, and lifted his hands. "I did."

A leg appeared from the darkness behind, a dirty sneaker kicking the handgun out of reach. It landed somewhere off in the bushes, probably stuffed with dirt if Bones' luck kept going the way it was.

"Do you have any others?" the voice, deep and quiet, would have been entirely smooth if not for a single tremor.

McCoy shook his head even as hands began to search him, first his back pockets before his shoulders are grabbed and he was bodily turned to face his captor. Whoever it is, he hid too well in the shadows for McCoy to get a good look at him. He was tall with dark hair and he managed to keep his gun firmly planted in the crock of McCoy's neck as he continued his search. He came up with nothing, just as the doctor had promised. McCoy could kick himself for leaving his blade in his backpack.

"Do not move." the captor demanded, slowly backing away from the doctor still on his knees. His weapon was trained on McCoy, aimed between the eyes if his spatial reasoning could still be trusted. It was rather difficult to make approximations with a handgun in your face.

McCoy could see the guy clearer as he stepped towards the fire, his shadow stretching longer and longer the closer he got to the small flames. He was quite tall with greasy black hair and croppy bangs that needed a good cutting. His eyes were sharp yet expressional, giving off hints of fear and anxiety as he crouched down and began to rummage through one of the travel-packs with his free hand.

The gun clattered to the ground as the young man swung off his own backpack. Cans clattered as they were switched from one bag to the next, a flash of green the ration card, and black cases extra magazine rounds. Each item isn't even glanced over as they're grabbed by fistfulls and shoved into the thief's bag. McCoy tried to rise, only to quickly duck as the gun was grabbed up.

"Don't move!"

"I won't, I won't!" McCoy growled, shifting uncomfortably and casting his eyes down. "I got a damned rock jammed in my kneecap."

Somewhere amidst the greasy bangs, an eyebrow slid up. He couldn't exactly make it out, but the shifting of stray hairs showed something was moving. The thief didn't dwell too long on McCoy's discomfort, moving over to the second bag and rummaging through it. Similar items were removed, extra ration cards, extra ammo, spare blades, a sharpener, cans of unopened food. The flying hands stopped as an old, worn novel was withdrawn. It was nothing special, the same classics schoolchildren of McCoy's age had all read from in middle school, but the thief stopped and frowned.

"Hey, Bones!" Jim's voice cut through the air like a lightning strike, startling the thief and making him drop the volume. He groped for his gun as Jim came closer, "I think I found what made that noise. I have no idea-"

"Jim!" McCoy shouted, just as the tall thief scrabbled to his feet and cocked his weapon.

But, for as fast as the thief was, Jim was faster. His gun was out and aimed, his safety slid off and both hands steadying the other. "The fuck-"

"Drop your weapon." the thief ordered, much as he had with McCoy. "Allow me to retrieve my pack and retreat, and nobody will sustain any injuries."

Jim snorted. "Like hell I will. You turn tail and leave, and maybe I won't shoot you in the back on your way out."

McCoy couldn't help the groan that came from his throat as the gun was swung back his way. "I will shoot your companion."

"What the hell?" Jim blinked. "Did you learn to talk from a dictionary?" He took a step forward, not watching McCoy flinch as the black-haired thief thrust his weapon out harder. Jim stopped, shrugging slightly. "Go ahead, shoot 'im."

"I will." the thief threatened, adjusting his grip, "I will shoot him."

His throat was tight, his ability to swallow had disappeared with his ability to breathe as Jim casually strolled over. The stranger was tense, his entire body rigid as he rubbed his finger against the trigger. But, McCoy couldn't see the faint trembling Jim could in that single, pale white finger.

The handgun clattered to the ground as his wrist was slapped. A grunt, and it was the stranger on his knees with his hands wrenched behind his head. It was Jim's gun pressed against the man's temple.

"Now," Jim motioned with his free hand for the doctor to get up, "what's your name?"

"I do not have to tell you anything." the man bit, quiet snippy for one with a gun pressed so firmly into his head Jim's knuckles were turning white from the pressure. He flinched as the butt end clobbered into the back of his head before resuming its original position.

A heavy, relieved sigh sounded behind. "What, Bones? What's wrong."

The doctor held the abandoned gun Jim had knocked from the robber's hand, the magazine cartridge in one hand and the gun in the the other. "He didn't have any bullets in his mag. It was a goddamned bluff."

"Then what the hell was he trying to do?" Jim demanded, swiftly turning back to his captured prey like a trained hound on a rabbit. "What the hell were you doing?"

"Jim," McCoy shook out the banged up pack of the stranger's, "he was just tryin' to get some food. And some rounds."

"So, what," Jim swung to face McCoy, seamlessly switching hands on the gun, keeping the simple machine stationery, "you're on his fucking side now?"

"I'm not on anybody's side." McCoy huffed. He removed the last few cans and replaced them in their proper bags. "But he's obviously hungry. I don't begrudge another man a little grub." Breathing a steady breath, McCoy tried to calm his nerves. "Let 'im go." When Jim didn't move, a puzzled look tightening his eyes and his gun still poised against the kneeling man's head, he rolled his eyes. "Pat 'im down if ya want, but I'm guessin' he doesn't have much weapons-wise on him if his gun's empty."

Jim growled, debating with himself a moment, and put the safety on. He yanked the guy to his feet, grunting in the effort it took. For such a tall, skinny man, he was oddly heavy. Pockets were checked, socks tugged at, and sleeves smoothed down by rough hands. Not even a loose blade was found on the scrawny person.

"He's clean." Jim huffed, sounding almost disappointed. The black-haired stranger straightened to his full height, brushing dirt from his knees and fixing his messed clothing. Jim slid the magazine from his gun, making a show of the shiny bullets inside before reassembling the two pieces and putting them away.

McCoy had finished straightening up the bags and had taken a moment to peek inside the newcomer's pack. There wasn't much, a water canister that sounded almost empty, a few wrappers that looked months old, and a sweater that looked like it had been made for a much fatter person. He motioned with his head towards the snapping fire that had gotten rather low in all the commotion. "Come, sit. Lemme get a good look at ya." As expected, the stranger eyed both McCoy and the fire warily. Prepared, McCoy shook the last bag of protein nibs. "I got treats."

The stranger bristled. "I am not some animal to be won over by food."

"Well, if you're sure." the doctor began to stuff the crinkly bag into his pocket, catching the small breath and step towards him in the process. But, unlike how he had hoped, the stranger composed himself and stopped. "For the love o- just sit your ass down 'ere."

A shove from the blonde set the man in motion, Jim all but shoving him down and into the fire. The man landed heavily on his rear, all the while guided and guarded by Jim, and stared blankly as the packet of snack was shoved into his hand. Kindness? Shown to him by an obvious grouch he had, moments ago, threatened to kill and had tried to steal from?

"I..." the bag crinkled lightly as it shifted between two long, white hands, "I do not understand."

"Well," McCoy had seated himself down on his stump, "I sure as hell ain't opening up another can until tomorrow, and I hate nibs. 'Sides, sendin' you away now without any kind of way to defend yourself would be murder. I try not to harm people who aren't Infected. So," he forced Jim to the ground with his eyes, "ya got a name?"

Silence that was customary of all nervous, wary, post-apocalyptic young adults greeted the doctor's attempts at conversation. McCoy chuckled lightly, trying to warm up the sudden cold that had appeared while stoking the fire. "Ya don't gotta worry 'bout it, names don't mean much of anything anymore."

There was quiet a moment longer, the only sound the snapping of dry wood on the fire and the soft breath of wind rustling drying leaves, before the man spoke. "I am... Spock."

"Well, Spock," McCoy stated cooly, "are ya just gonna keep fiddling with that there bag, or are ya actually gonna eat it?"

Spock contemplated the bag of nibs he held a moment before pulling apart the aluminum with a squealing, sucking pop. The doctor looked away, tending the fire a little more and allowing the man to eat the crunchy, kibble-like balls of... stuff. It didn't take long, Spock somewhere between calmly observing each piece and simultaneously inhaling it.

Jim, who had been broodily silent while Spock ate, found his voice just as the black-haired man was crunching up the wrapper. "Spock'... that's Vulcan, isn't it?"

"It is." came the cool reply, holding as much bite as Jim's observation had. "Why do you ask?"

The blonde snorted sharply. "Wasn't it the Vulcans who created this whole damned mess? The disease, the zombies, everything?"

Spock's spine mimicked an iron rod in everything but the iron itself. "Earth would have gone uncontaminated had it not been for Human intervention."

"You're making it sound like I was the dick that brought the plague here!" Jim's voice was laced with venom, every word heavily steeped.

"Just as your tone of voice suggests I was the Vulcan who created this strain." Spock countered smoothly, if hotly. "It was our parent's generation that condemned us to live this way. We cannot alter the past." Spock shifted slightly, adjusting his rigid Indian-pose to something slightly less stiff.

Jim grumbled unintelligibly, shuffling against the dry leaves. "Whatever. What's a Vulcan doing on Earth, anyways? I thought your race was basically dead, stuck up on some abandoned planet."

"I would not know, having never seen the Planet Vulcan myself." Spock's emotionless voice seemed loud in the dark stillness. "My mother was human and did not do well in the dry heat of the planet. They lived on Earth in the lower United States."

Humming disinterestedly, Jim hid a smirk as McCoy's head began to nod, his arm crossed over his chest. "So, that's where you're from? Texas?"

"Florida." Spock corrected. "My mother had always enjoyed the ocean."

"I'm from Iowa." Jim leaned back, stretching his legs out towards the fire. He could feel the heat through the bottom of his shoes, the thin rubber full of holes. "Bones there's from Georgia. Not that it really matters anymore."

A puzzled Vulcan was quite humorous, at least to Jim. He huffed a laugh as a black mess of greasy, messy bangs tilted to the side. "'Bones'?"

"His real name's McCoy." Jim specified. "Leonard McCoy, Doctor McCoy, Doctor Leonard Horatio McCoy. There's plenty to pick from, but I'm the only one why gets to call him Bones."

"I understand." Spock promised quietly, eyeing the flickering fire. He moved towards it, covertly, just enough to absorb more of its warmth. "Are you two-"

Jim was shaking his head before Spock could even finish. "No way. We met up a few years ago. Not related at all." The blonde paused, just long enough to replenish the fire, and settled back down like a squirrel in its nest. "How old are ya?"

"What does it matter?" a black eyebrow slid up somewhere beneath the long, matted bangs.

"Com'on." Jim pressed. "Why not? There's no such thing as secrets any more, especially about things as stupid as names and ages." Seeing Spock's hesitance, probably fearing he had told too much already, he add, "I'll tell you if you tell me."

Spock sighed, or as close to sighing as Jim had ever seen a Vulcan get (not that he'd ever seen a Vulcan before). "Twenty."

"Going on..." Jim pried, waving his hand.

"Twenty-one?" Spock found himself leaning away slightly from the energetic, if not eccentric, blonde man. "Obviously. In eight months."

"Cool, guess I'm older than you." Jim grinned, teeth slightly crooked from lack of braces during his younger teenage years, but still pleasant to look at. "But only by three months... Still older." Without warning, Jim suddenly lay himself down on the crunchy ground, stretching out comfortably and seemingly warmed up to the stranger. "So, there a reason you left sunny Florida for rainy San Francisco?"

"It is not nearly as rainy as you imply." Spock stated lightly, ignoring the question entirely. He paused, just long enough to look over the ground before laying himself back as well. The stars were bright, the moon brighter. Perhaps too bright for his Vulcan eyes to handle, so he closed them, just for a moment.

The sound of crunching leaves on the opposite side of the fire forced Jim to cock his head, just enough to see the long figure of Spock stretched out in the dirt. "You never answered me," he said, quiet for reasons he couldn't explain, "what brought ya here?"

It seemed Jim would not receive an answer, at least that night. Jim sighed as Spock's gentle, heavy breathing signaled his sleeping. Jim turned his eyes back to the stars, carefully tracing the Ursa Major and traveling the length of the Northern Cross.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note- Not much to say on this chapter. I hope you enjoyed reading it better than I did. Not much to move the plot along here, but Spock has been introduced. Obviously.<strong>

**Please follow the three tactful 'R's of fanfiction. Reading, rating, and reviewing. **


	3. Chapter 3

Author's Chapter Notes:

**Author's Note - It was pointed out to me last time that it seemed odd that Jim and Spock would be the same age. In friendly rebuttal, this is a 23-rd century AU. I had always thought it strange that Jim and Spock appeared the same age in the shows (even the flashbacks were pretty similar in ages). I know that Spock was in the Academy before Spock, but so was Chekov, if you think about it. Plus, the kid's 17, meaning that he either went through Academy faster than Kirk's 3 years or entered at age 13. I'm assuming Vulcans get in sooner than that, but that would explain Spock's young age but still having his rank.**

**But, that aside, this is just as AU and their ages will make an important plot point (or, a semi-non-important one). Thank you**

Chapter 3

_Oh, shit. Shit, shit shit_.

He hadn't meant to, honest. He could have sworn he was just going to close his eyes for five minutes, not... however long he had fallen asleep for. Damn it, he was supposed to have been keeping watch, not catching forty winks after he had already slept his turn.

And, to make matters worse, camp was empty. Empty, except for Jim and the fire smothering itself out as it ate the last of the wood. Backpacks were gone, except for Jim's. Sleeping bags were still strewn about, so, whatever had happened, it had been in a rush.

The details of the night slowly returned to Jim's groggy mind. The thief that had tried to kill McCoy with an empty gun. He was gone, and so was McCoy.

"Bones?" Jim called warily, rising to his feet and removing his ever-present pistol. Every possible scenario whirled through his mind.

Perhaps a plague of Infected had discovered them, forcing Spock and McCoy to leave him behind as they fled. Maybe the zombies had Infected his friend and the weirdo guy, taking the two with them as they moved on.

But... neither case seemed right. If there had been zombies, Jim would have been the first to know. Plus, McCoy would have tried to wake him. The biting was just as stupid the more he thought about it. Why would a pack of zombs and two newly-turned ignore fresh, sleeping meat just a few feet away? It couldn't have been zombies.

But, maybe, Spock had turned on them (or continued on with his false sense of security). He was holding McCoy captive, a backpack full of food and someone to hold for ransom to boot. Spock would have extra ammo to last him a month if he had taken McCoy and his bag.

That idea too seemed rather foolish the more Jim thought of it. Why would he take McCoy, an old(er) grouch that would just slow him down. Plus, he had left Jim's bag behind too. If he was using Bones as a pack mule - highly unlikely - he probably would have taken all the backpacks instead of just the one.

So where the hell were they?

"For the love of god, just shoot the damned thing."

Ah, there they were. Behind the clump of trees opposite of the way Jim was going. "Bones?"

"Over here, Jim." the ex-doctor called, turning back to the argument he was in. "What the hell's your problem?"

"I do not desire to kill anything that is not out of self-defence." Spock returned dryly, his eyes locked in the direction McCoy was pointing. "Also, Vulcans do not consume meat products."

"Then give it to me and Jim." McCoy gave an exasperated sigh. "It's just a squirrel, for breakfast. It ain't like its a person, and you don't have to eat any of it."

Jim couldn't help but smirk at the glowering look McCoy received from the new Vulcan guy. The leaves crunched lightly under his shoes as he drew near. "What's going on?"

An accusing thumb jerked out at Spock. "I wanna see how well the hobgoblin can shoot, but he's got something against huntin' just as I've got something against wasting ammo."

"I had merely suggested you pick out a target that was not a living being." Spock pointed out, not that anyone listened.

Jim scanned the trees, easily picking out the grey tree squirrel skittering about the branches, unaware of the wager being taken on its life. It had to have been a hundred, maybe a hundred-fifty feet away and seventy-five feet up, not to mention it was a little, fast moving animal. "That squirrel?" Jim asked, receiving a nod from his companion. He snorted. "I don't think he'd be able to make that shot, anyways. Not everyone can be a skilled marksman." He twirled his gun between his fingers, relishing the way the sunlight reflected off the tip and into Spock's eyes.

"It is a simple shot." Spock objected, squinting harshly. "I only desire-"

"Then do it." Jim dared, cocking his pistol. "If you don't, I will. Either way, the squirrel ends up dead and roasted for breakfast. Unless, that is," Jim paused, smirking, "you miss."

Reverse psychology should not have worked so easily on a Vulcan. It might have been Spock's human half pumping competitive juices into his copper blood, but whatever it was, a small handgun was withdrawn from his pocket, replenished with a few bullets courtesy of Doctor McCoy. The gun hung loosely in his hands as Spock lightly tapped his thigh in consideration, scouting out the small mammal with his eyes. The gun was brought up, fired in the same motion, and lowered.

In the distance, the small thud of a body landed to the ground.

"As I said," Spock huffed quietly, "a simple shot."

The squirrel was found beneath the tree, a small twig clutched in its right paw, entire body stiff, with a clean hole blown clear through its head. McCoy reached down, grabbing a back paw and flipping it over, the hole squirting blood and grey matter. "Damn. I think we should keep this one around, Jim."

"Keep me?" bangs shifted as a black eyebrow was lifted, his voice evident he was not very keen on the idea.

"Yeah." McCoy nodded, rising with the dripping squirrel in his hand. "Ya can act as a bodyguard, or just tag along. Safety in numbers, 'n' all." At Spock's continued, wary silence, McCoy huffed. "I'm not gonna just _give_ you some ammo and send ya on your way. If you're gonna use our bullets, we're gonna get something out of it."

Spock's indifferent, or lack of indifference, face didn't change. "Your argument is..." Spock paused, admitting with regret, "logical."

Jim groaned. "But I just got used to you, Bones. Why do we have to pick up another guy?"

"You need a friend." McCoy stated with a shrug. "And I need someone who can actually hit his target."

"I've _never_ missed a shot!"

McCoy lifted an eyebrow, the motion as contagious as an Infected bite, "What about that deer?"

Jim moaned dramatically, shuffling after the doctor was he started back for camp. "It was _one time_. One time. And, technically, I didn't miss."

"Nope." McCoy agreed, kneeling down once more as the small campsite came into view and withdrew his pocket knife. He inserted it into the squirrel's skin, carefully starting between the legs and seemingly unzipping the furry coat away from the meat. "You just let it go. A whole week's worth of fresh meat, and you just let it walk on 'cuz it scared ya."

"It had frickin' _pointed bones_ coming out of its head." Jim argued. "It could have turned on me and gouged me right through." Jim grabbed at his stomach as if an antler had entered his body. "'Gentle woodland creature, my ass."

McCoy snorted, carefully pulling away the grey fur away in one piece. He motioned towards Jim to hand him a nearby, sturdy stick which was inserted through the rear end of the naked, brainless squirrel and popped out through the neck. In a few moments, the deceased rodent's stick was stuck into the ground, the naked squirrel bending with gravity over the small flames.

Leonard plopped down next to it, adding twigs and poking at the fire. He looked up and around. "Where'd Spock go? Crap, did we lose him already?"

"Nah." Jim shook his head. "I think he's foraging. I saw him stop at a bush that had some berries left on it."

McCoy hummed. "Well, just as long as I don't have to strip bark or dig up roots for him to eat, he can be as vegan as he wants."

"Vegetarian." Jim corrected. "There's a difference. Vulcans can eat animal products, just not the animals themselves. Something about becoming violently ill after consumption. I read it in one of my books."

Rolling his eyes, McCoy slowly turned the squirrel over. He tapped the charred side, quickly licking his burnt finger. It was nearly finished, just a few more minutes on the other side. The soft crunching of leaves drew his attention towards a nearby tree, a figure emerging from behind it. Quietly, with the silence and grace of the near extinct deer, Spock moved towards the fire, the furthest point away from the other two men, and sat down. His one hand was cupped, cradling a small cache of plump, wild blueberries, a few raspberries and blackberries, and a one or two acorns. A collection that would have once made the squirrel, currently being uprooted and pulled apart, proud.

"Quite a collection ya got there." McCoy stated nonchalantly, dividing up the meat.

"Autumn has always been acquainted with harvest." Spock replied, popping a blueberry in his mouth. The tips of his fingers were lightly stained with purple, blue, pink, and a tad of green from thorns that had pricked him while picking the berries. "And harvest has been especially bountiful this season."

The doctor chuckled, a nostalgic note in his voice that settled in the crevices and frown lines of his lips. "Harvest? What do you know about harvest-time? Why, back in my day-"

"Ugh." the groan came from across the dying fire, Jim's mouth half-full of squirrel as he hung his head back. "Bones, we get it, you're old. We youngin's don't know nothing about the days of legend and lore and tech back when you were knee-high to a grasshopper."

The doctor scowled at the friendly sarcasm, wiping grease from his fingers onto his pants. "Well," he grumbled, accent getting as thick as Jim's joking, "ya don't." He licked the remaining charr from his fingertips, kicking disposed bones into the fire pit nearly devoid of all fire. "You _youngin's_ finish your breakfast, we break camp as soon as I'm back."

Jim stopped masticating his squirrel meat, looking towards Bones. "Where ya goin'?" Obviously, his mouth was still full.

"I'm gonna take Spock's water canteen and fill it. There's gotta be a crick or stream nearby."

"My water canteen?" Spock was next to question the doctor's actions. His worn backpack rested near his feet, which he protectively pulled closer to himself.

McCoy hummed in the positive, bobbing his head in the same. "Mm-hm. If you're gonna be sticking around, you're gonna have to learn real fast that we share most everything. Food, clothes, dishes, it all makes its rounds."

"Including James' book?" Spock asked cryptically, an eyebrow rising almost haughtily, seemingly even more smug as McCoy blanked and began to mimic a fish, opening and closing his mouth as an answer came and went.

Jim, meanwhile, remained stubbornly silent.

Humming in the back of his throat, the doctor moved in to claim Spock's bag and canteen, "You two will just have to fight that over yourselves." He moved carefully, like he would if he were ever presented another chance to see a deer, and took Spock's bag, removing the canteen. The bag was dropped back to the ground, long bottle in hand. McCoy paused once more, tapping his pocket before reaching in and withdrawing a knife, the same Scotty had declined a day ago. "Here." he tossed it at the Vulcan, who caught it reflexively. "Try workin' on getting that to open."

"For what reason?" the Vulcan, but apparently even barely post-adolescent Vulcans had snotty teenage attitudes, questioned. The knife, while larger than a pocketknife yet smaller than a collapsable machete, was rusted almost completely shut. The only thing keeping it slightly open was the fact it couldn't close fully. "Do you not have other knives?"

"Yeah." the doctor said. "But you don't. Clean that up, and you can keep it."

The idea of a new possession seemed to interest the young man, who eyed the hand-sized weapon with more interest. Jim was quiet, more interested in finishing his breakfast than the crappy knife Spock had. No arguments, no fist-fights, McCoy could go and fill the water bottle in peace.

_It only took ten goddamned minutes_. he huffed internally before heading deeper into the forest, the crick not too far from camp.

(/line)

Scavenging had been quite good. They had avoided the city, scoping out more across farmland. A single house had been found, already picked pretty clean by others before them. But, despite the mess the house had been in, a warm blanket had been found left behind in an open closet, an extra cup for Spock to use, and two new pairs of used socks for Jim had been picked out of dumped drawers and smashed cupboards. No food had been found, long stolen by others or eaten up by rats.

Not much had been learned about the half-Vulcan besides what Jim had wheedled away from him the night before. Spock was quiet, on edge as every person still alive was, and his ears were actually good for something other than looking funny. Jim had grabbed his gun, something falling and shattering to the floor behind him, aiming in expectation of an Infected to stumble towards them in a run. Spock had told him not to waste his bullets, sparking an argument about the difference between a mouse and a zombie. Ten minutes later, fresh pellets had been found in the room Jim had heard his "zombie" in.

But, amplified hearing was a natural aspect for any Vulcan, half or whole. Nothing on Spock's personality, his past, his likes or dislikes, or any history was dug up by either Jim's nagging questions or McCoy's overtly covert ones.

Doctor McCoy did, however, learn yet another fact on Vulcan metabolisms. Or maybe just Spocks.

_Crunch_!

Jim laughed as he closed the flap on his backpack, swinging it up on his shoulder. His bag was heavier, apples filling every spare gap they could within. "Oh. My. God." he rolled his eyes, pointing an accusing finger towards a piece of dripping fruit. "You _never_ stop eating!"

That day alone Spock had found handfuls of berries as they had walked in and out of the woods, cracked open scores of acorns with his teeth for the smaller nuts inside, and eaten a couple dozen leaves from certain trees. Now, a tell-tale drop of apple juice stained his chin as he masticated a large bite of fruit from the surrounding orchard.

"I am descendant from a species of leaf-eaters." Spock commented dryly, contrary to the extra-juicy fruit he bit into again, the sticky liquid sliding down his hand. "Leaves, I have come to learn, are not exactly filling."

McCoy snorted, his own fruit-laden pack resting heavy on his back. Each one of them paused from time to time as they found riper and larger fruit in the abandoned and now wild orchard, cramming as many of the assorted apples as they could into the bags and packs and spare pockets. Wisely, Bones kept his mouth shut, Jim making enough comments for the both of them.

"I'd bet." Jim snorted, grinning as he plucked a green apple and bit into it. He had no idea what kind of apple it was, probably a pink lady if he had read that one book right, but it was the ripest apple he had ever sunk his teeth into. Not too hard, but nowhere near rotten. The juice was just the right consistency, dribbling with each bite but not too fast that he couldn't stop it with his tongue. "What do you do in the winter, when you can't just walk and eat?"

Spock dropped his core, refraining from answering just long enough to pluck and start a second. "I dry whatever I can and ration accordingly." he replied after swallowing, contrary to Jim who ate, walked, and talked all at once.

Jim hummed quietly, shrugging a shoulder and devouring a large chunk of apple. "Cool, I guess." Losing his interest in Vulcan eating habits, he trotted up to McCoy, his heavy pack slamming against his back with every skip he took. "Hey, Bones, we're not heading back to the city tonight, are we?"

"Nope." the doctor answered. "I thought we'd just bunk down in the woods again. Why?"

"It's just getting kind of later." Jim pointed out, the sun overhead burning its hottest in preparation of beginning its descent. A crunch behind him signaled Spock's nearing. "I just thought that, if we were heading back to the city, we might not make it in time for curfew."

"Don't want to be mistaken for 'Fleet?" McCoy snorted without humor, disdain colouring his words. "I'd figured we wouldn't make it. We'll get back in tomorrow." Jim nodded quietly. "Good. Why don't you start looking for some wood? Might as well make camp a little early today."

Jim was quick to agree, slurping up the last bite of his own fruit before shucking away the core and hurrying off in search of kindling. The campsite McCoy had chosen was similar to the one they had abandoned only recently, a dry clearing amongst trees with leaves of amber and umber, and a bare patch quickly cleared of browned leaves and lined with a ring of little stones.

McCoy straightened, pleased with his work. His eyes fell on a nearby figure, simply watching with all the curiosity of a timid schoolboy. "Aren't ya gonna go help Jim?"

"Find sticks in the woods?" Spock countered, lowering his bulging pack to the ground. "I believe my time will be better spent elsewhere." Seating himself on the autumn ground, he pulled his new knife from his pocket. Orange rust still clung to parts of the blade, but now it freely swung open and closed with little sticking. And, enough rust had been cleaned away to safely slice apples into rings, in Spock's opinion.

The doctor watched for a moment. "Gonna dry some of those?"

"As many as I can manage." came the quiet reply, the foamy sound of sliced apples squirting juice as he spoke.

An eyebrow was raised, but nothing said as McCoy's backpack appeared next to his, stuffed tight with fresh-picked fruit. For some time, the only sound was McCoy picked through the nearby trees for proper material to begin the needed fire, and the gentle sounds of a knife sliding through apple flesh like butter. McCoy turned as a small sound came from behind.

Spock quietly cleared his throat. "I... was not aware that StarFleet extended this far."

"The original Academy was right in San Francisco." McCoy stated as he selected two sticks. "Back when it was actually used for space exploration, that is. There's still a Federation out there, somewhere. But not on earth."

"Nor Vulcan." Spock paused, just long enough to select a new apple. "What are you opinions on the modern 'Fleet?"

To most, that type of question came straight from the mouths of military soldiers with only one acceptable, correct answer: the 'Fleet, which may have once been the peacekeeping armada of the galaxy, was now a ragtag group of terrorists set on enslaving what remained of the human and Vulcan race to generations of fighting Infected and struggling for survival. They destroyed military outposts, bombed military vehicles, wounded military personnel, and sabotaged ration trucks.

McCoy had never personally met someone affiliated with StarFleet. He had found their bodies, riddled with bullet holes and their dog tags marking them as a member hanging limply from their cold necks. He had seen the aftermath of a StarFleet 'attack', a burning military truck being looted by civilians for the parts, any food, and the gasoline it contained. But, he had also seen the military instigate the attacks, setting up barricades and road blocks over non-city streets and forcing bite inspections so far out in the countryside it was ludicrous. The military only cared about its city bases, and eliminating all those who swore an oath to the 'Fleet.

"That's a pretty dangerous question." McCoy started slowly, a soft breath lighting the hot sticks he had rubbed together and igniting a tiny flame. Dried grass became easy fuel. "There a reason, or just 'cuz of Vulcan curiosity?"

"Curiosity." Spock answered swiftly, slicing fruit without missing a beat.

McCoy grunted. "I can't say. Personally, I like the ARMY. It doesn't matter if you're just a civilian, they're just instantly on your side. Siding with 'Fleet pits the military against ya. I'd rather try my hand at fighting brainless Infected rather than clever, living human beings." He paused, eyeing the Vulcan for any kind of change in demeanor. None came. "You?"

"The same."

The doctor hummed again, quieting down as Jim neared, his arms full of scraggled branches and his hands clasped around loose twigs. McCoy grumbled as the blonde dumped them before brushing himself off. "What the hell took ya so long? We've been waiting ages to get this fire started. The forest not have enough wood for ya?"

Jim rolled his eyes, kicking a stray branch back into the pile. "There's plenty more where those come from." he grinned.

"Plenty more- where in a damned forest! There's burnin' wood _everywhere_." McCoy exclaimed, sighing with a shaking head.

Jim payed him no mind as he plopped down on the ground, fishing about his bag for his book and another apple. Like Spock had said earlier, leaves - and, by extension, vegetation - were not filling. He could eat a hundred apples and think nothing of it. McCoy might argue he'd get a wicked stomach ache, but Jim wasn't inclined to agree. A hundred apples sounded like a pretty good dinner. Maybe not as good as Scotty's bacon and eggs had been, but good.

"What are you reading?"

"Hmm?" Jim hummed, letting his head flop back to look at the Vulcan, up-side down and lifting (or lowering) an eyebrow at him. He lifted the paper book. "This thing? Just a crap novel I picked up at one of the place's we've gone through. It kind of sucks, actually."

"If you dislike the contents, why continue reading?" Spock asked, setting aside the bottom ring of his apple and quickly slicing through the next.

Jim's forehead furrowed, as close to lifting an eyebrow as his muscles would allow. "And do what all day? I'm just grateful for the fact that I can read. 'Sides Bones, I can't name anyone else who can."

"I am not illiterate." Spock pointed out in a mumbly voice, just barely slowing his blade in time to avoid slicing into his apple-juice softened palm.

"Fine, so two people." Jim shrugged, absently paged through the worn book. The pages turned stiffly, crinkling harshly as they were gently turned aside one after the other. As Jim's page-turning slowed, he quieted down and settled into the warm dirt. The only sounds remaining, other than the occasional rustle of pages, were from Spock's work on the fruit and the quiet snap of the growing fire.

(/line)

The air was thick with the heavy scent of drying fruit. The apple rings, cored as little as possible to keep as much of the sweet flesh nearly intact, were beginning to shrivel in the heat of the roaring flames. The air was also damp, though, the promise and scent of rain somewhere in the future. Spock pulled his new blanket, covered in the fruit, closer to the fire to encourage rapid drying. While the night was rapidly cooling, he had survived the past few months without a blanket, he could survive one more night. Besides, as they were all taking turns keeping watch, he would have use of somebody else's sleeping bag.

His head darted up as a solid thump sounded beside him, the worn book settled into the crunchy leaves by his side. Jim suppressed a yawn as he stretched out, his back arching backwards where he stood towering above the crouched Vulcan.

Jim shrugged as he met Spock's eyes, quiet yet questioning. "Ya said you wanted to read it earlier."

A thin, black caterpillar lifted beneath Spock's heavy bangs. "I do not recall making such a statement."

The blonde shrugged again, making his way to and inside his sleeping sack. "So you implied, I just read between the lines. I'm taking second shift, though, so you can either wait for third or take the first and read then."

Spock replied with a quiet nod, reaching forward with long, thin fingers and slowly turning the book about in his hands. The textured, browned and stained cover creaked in its weak binding as he opened it, skimming the title page and table of contents. The first chapter was turned to, and Spock completely missed it as Doctor McCoy tucked himself in for the night. The fire snapped, the apples dried, the two men slept, and the Vulcan read.

Chapter End Notes:

**Author's Notes - I fear this was another 'filler' chapter. The main plot will become well known in the next chapter, honest. There seems to be a problem with right now, so I can't put in the lines I usually do. That will be remedied as soon as remedies their website.**


End file.
